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one. We shall catch it whatever we do, but it is best to be caught as near home as possible. "So hurry up, my lads. Steamela, you have inherited your father's gift of prophecy And for goodness' sake leave that unfortunate tortoise alone; you have plenty of meat for to-night without it; if we delay longer we shall never arrive at all."

We have covered little more than half the distance homewards when there comes a faint sighing in the tree-tops, and a sharp puff of air from the south fans our cheeks. It is warm air at first, but the second gust, a moment or two later, is perceptibly cooler. These are the farthest advanced patrols of the storm. Far away can be heard its approaching roar. The tree-tops on the distant horizon wave frantically, and then, blotted out in a grey mist, are no more seen. Around us is once more a dead calm. Then all in a moment there is a mighty rushing, and with a roar and a leap the storm is upon us. A blinding lightning flash dazzles the eyes, and the following thunder-crash is so hard on its tracks as to appear simultaneous. A big marula-tree is for a moment enveloped in a sheet of flame, and then down comes one of the great limbs, its rending and tearing lost in the rage of other sounds. Dust, leaves, stones, and branches fly frantically to leeward before the blast. The thunder is only one long nerveshaking roar, and the flashes of lightning follow one another

so fast that they appear combined in a single flickering glare. Wind and thunder are barely distinguishable in their combined tumult. Not a drop of rain yet. We have just managed in the nick of time to crawl under a luckily situated overhanging bank, which affords room enough for the three of us to crouch together close up against the windward side. We shall be able to see the worst out from its comparative shelter, and it was a great piece of good fortune to have happened on it when we did.

There is a momentary and partial lull in the scourge of the wind. Instantly comes a pattering on the leaves, followed by that peculiar smell which arises from from parched ground after it has sucked up the first few drops of moisture. A few minutes more, and then down comes the rain in one great blinding sheet, at first, as it strikes the dry earth, causing gouts of mud to rebound; then triumphing, sweeping the whole surface, it carries all the obstructions of dead sticks and leaves away in little rivulets, which before long are magnified into miniature torrents. Our sheltering bank serves to stave off the full fury of the elements, but cascades of water are now falling from its overhanging brow, the moisture is trickling down between shirt and skin, and we crouch in an ever-deepening pool of water. The first violence of the wind has abated, but it still blows in great gusts, driving the rain furiously

at a sharp angle. But this is not the worst. A sharp stinging sensation, and we flatten ourselves still more against the bank for protection against the hailstones, which at first come mingled with the rain, and then altogether supplant it. They descend like showers of shrapnel bullets, their rattle among the trees heard above the now lessening voices of wind and thunder. Some of the stones are as big as pigeon's eggs, solid lumps of ice. A jackal, driven from his shelter of long grass by this last visitation, comes tearing madly along, draggled and terrified, in search of some friendly hole. Half blinded he almost rushes into us, and only at the last moment, becoming aware of human presence, reluctantly turns aside and disappears. The birds and such smaller mammals as have not sought timely shelter must be in sad case. Duikers and even bushbucks are often found lying dead after these storms, so great is the force and weight of the hailstones.

Fortunately these these violent storms are usually as short as they are sharp. The thunder after a few more earth-shaking roars begins finally to draw away. The rain, too, no longer driven before the wind, settles into a steady downpour, and in fact in ten minutes or so it will be possible to make a start for home. It is nearly dark as we plunge out into the rain. Squish, squash, we tramp through the mud. Jase takes the lead, and holds aside the dripping branches for his master to VOL. CXCII.—NO. MCLXI.

pass. It is not an inspiriting moment. Quite apart from the present watery state of affairs, bush walking in the dark is always disagreeable. The little hook thorns, difficult enough to avoid even by day, are of course now quite invisible. Perhaps most trying of all are the knee-high thorn bushes and growers, which are constantly being walked over or into. We fall over concealed logs and jutting fragments of rock. Creepers and long grass weave themselves like sentient animals round the legs, greatly retarding movement. Progress seems, and in fact is, terribly slow. Frogs croak every where. To them, at any rate, all is as it should be, nor do they lose the opportunity of proclaiming it to the world at large. Here and there groups of animals, indistinguishable in the darkness, dash and splash off at our approach. A lion begins calling in deep guttural grunts a mile or two away, and is presently answered by his mate. A dark wet night such as this promises to be is favourable to the work they have in hand, for it enables them to creep upon their victims, huddled together for warmth and shelter, with the minimum risk of discovery. The storm is roaring away far to the north now, but it continues to rain steadily, and it is becoming so dark that it is barely possible to see Jase walking a few paces in front. Other sounds begin to mingle with the light sibilant murmur of the rain, some of them in

D

definite in character, others discern a faint gleam of light

more easily recognisable. A jackal barks weirdly close at hand, and then faintly comes from far away the howl of a hyæna, repeated at intervals, as the big scavenger, having emerged perhaps from the hole where he has been sheltering himself, sets out on his nightly prowl.

In due course we come to one of the dry spruits crossed in the morning. It is rushing down now, with much fuss and turmoil, too deep to ford, and with a span of ten yards from bank to bank. It is quite impossible to get over here. So there ensues a long weary detour, through dense bush and long drenched reeds and grass, until perhaps a mile up a place is found where, with some difficulty, we manage to cross, the water knee-deep. A white man alone would be in hopeless case, but our local "boys" are never at a loss concerning the way, seldom even for a short cut.

And 80 stumbling and splashing, but always plodding steadily on, we can at length

shining through the rain. A few minutes more bring us to the banks of the Sabi. Surely never were benighted wayfarers more thankful. The river is but little affected by the recent storm. It takes more than twelve hours for the water to come down from even the foothills, and though, if the rain has been general, to-morrow may see the river rushing in full flood, at present a rise of a few inches is all that the discharge of the local tributaries has been able to effect. Although we had rather anticipated this from previous experience, the realisation comes as a relief nevertheless. The possibility of being cut off by a hundred yards of foaming torrent from shelter and food, and of having to spend such a night as this in the bush, has been rather haunting us for the last half hour. However, all is well that ends well; lights soon appear on the opposite bank in response to our shouts, and we cross without further misadventure.

A COMPLETE ELIZABETHAN GENTLEMAN.

"THIS Robert Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, was a complete gentleman in all suitable employments, an exact seaman, a good navigator, an excellent architect, mathematician, physician, and what not. He was a handsome, personable man, tall of stature, red-haired, and of admirable comport, and above all noted for riding the great horse for tilting and for being the first of all that taught a dog to sit in order to catch partridges." If any man now sees a bathos in this progression from great arts and sciences to the high horse and the training of setters, so did not Carlo Dudley when he atoned for having been the family scamp and the plague of his father's life by giving him this noble character to Anthony Wood in 1673. It was much that Sir Robert had been seaman, navigator, arohitect, mathematician, physician, and what not. It was more that he was a personable man and of admirable comport. But it was above all that he was well in place on the great horse, and was master of all the accomplishments of the complete gentleman.

Sir Robert cannot be said to be a wholly forgotten man. He was the central personage of a once loud and long-drawnout scandal, and that was enough to secure him a safe immortality of a sort.

He

in

could not be overlooked Mr Craik's 'Romance of the

Peerage,' and he was entitled to attention in the Lisle title case. Mr Adlard dealt with him in an appendix to his 'Amy Robsart.' Two Englishmen in Italy, Mr Thomas Vaughan and Mr Leader, have studied him, and his voyage to the West Indies has earned for him a full notice by Mr Warner in the publications of the Hakluyt Society. And he deserved it all, partly for what he did, but more for what he was and what he represented.

No words need be wasted over the very transparent mystery of his birth. He was, according to the testimony of the most credible witnesses, the son of Douglas Sheffield, widow of the second Lord Sheffield, and sister of the Lord High Admiral Howard Effingham, and of Elizabeth's Earl of Leicester. If any one wishes to read of secret marriages, alleged and denied, of the Queen's jealousy, and of Leicester's falsity, together with poisonings carried out at the Earl's orders, by his body physician and poisoner-of-allwork, the Italian Doctor and Socinian refugee Giulio Borgarucci, he will find matter to his taste in the pages of Mr Craik and the other writers named. We may take it for granted that the boy was born at Sheen on the 7th August 1574. He had his mother's word for it. We are constrained to believe that Leioester was for once telling

the truth when he said that his son was "base." The story is ugly, and teaches nothing of more value than the dreary lesson that the courtiers of Queen Elizabeth were no better in the way of impudent and callous immorality than the Court of Charles II.

Lady Sheffield married Sir Edward Stafford, Ambassador to France, after Leicester had deserted her and had taken to wife Lettice Devereux, widow of the first Earl of Essex. Leicester did not shirk his responsibility. He took charge of the boy, saw to his education, and treated him openly as his heir when that "noble imp," Lord Denbigh, his only legitimate child, died. Robert was entered at Christ Church as "the son of an Earl," and was with his father at headquarters during the Armada year. In 1589 Leicester died, not without the inevitable but doubtless quite ungrounded suspicion of poison. By his will written by himself, with great precision, and in excellent English, he left his base son (for so he is careful to name him) well provided for. He was to have a pension at once, and to enter into possession of Kenilworth, together with more manors and leases than one has the patience to name, whenever his uncle, Ambrose Dudley, the Earl of Warwick, should die. And then there were other manors, leases, and houses to come to him at the death of the Countess.

"Qui terre 8 guerre a." Young Dudley was soon fight

ing with the Dowager Countess. The poor woman had been left executrix and intrusted with the whole responsibility for winding up Leicester's affairs, which were in confusion. He owed, as he confessed in his will, he knew not how many thousands more than twenty thousand pounds. The lad had need of his uncle the Lord High Admiral and other friends at Court to protect him against the forcible entry of the Countess and her new husband, Christopher Blount, into Kenilworth. It is characteristic of the Court of Elizabeth that Howard of Effingham, brother of the betrayed and deserted Douglas Sheffield, did not feel the stain on his family honour as a wound. He accepted his nephew, though the story of his birth was a secret of the housetops. He remained "the noble friend" of Leicester to the last, and was invited in his will to act as the adviser of the Countess Lettice. With his connections the natural place of young Dudley was at Court. Biographers have speculated on the influence which the scientific leanings of his Oxford tutor, Thomas Chaloner, may have had on him. But Dudley can have seen little of Oxford, and the Court included many who were well qualified to encourage his natural inclination to shipbuilding and chemistry. If we can trust a document he thought fit to produce in later years, he must have looked upon himself as hors de page in 1591; for in that year he bound himself by "verba de presenti et mutuum

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